


the maid of winter

by manbunjon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: There is never anything about her but an air of congeniality and she is never more than kind as she accepts their offers of dance or gift or sweet word. But there is a calid undercurrent about her, coursing through every lingering touch she offers, every hand that is placed upon a shoulder or a palm for just a moment too long.It reveals the lust in her eyes and the puckishness of the smile that plays at her lips, and Jon knows she is aware of exactly what she is doing.





	the maid of winter

It is a game they play. Each day they go about their business in the castle, attending to the duties whose responsibility falls only upon their shoulders; Jon writes letters, Sansa charms the Northern lords.

But come nightfall, things begin to change.

In the great hall of Winterfell, Sansa has invited all the knights and lords and bannermen to dine together as one house. The musicians play and the mummers sing, canting tales of the Northern beauty that was the Lady of Winterfell or the way her brother carves through the battlefield like a direwolf incarnate.

The castle remains heavy with the merriment the victory against the Bolton cause has brought. Each night they feast and make merry, as though they had not another care in the world.

The Lords fall over themselves in their haste to invite their Lady to dance. Sansa accepts their offered hands with great glee as she is led onto the bare floor, where the tables and chairs have been cleared away to make space for their evening gaiety.

Her skirts wind around her long legs as she dances and Sansa is quick to take them up in her free hand and raise the hem just slightly, revealing a slit of bare, stockingless skin. It was as though it were an accident, as though she does not mean to reveal such a private part of herself, for she is a true lady after all.

Jon can see the way their throats bob at the sight, their eyes raking over her with such ravenous heat that it is as though something so innocuously innocent was more arousing than any naked whore in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa dazzles them with her charm and her geniality and the overawing beauty that shines from every inch of her as she offers her smile and a few private words, and Jon smirks, knowing firsthand how she is able to make it seem that even for just a moment that there is no other man in the room but they.

There is never anything about her but an air of congeniality and she is never more than kind as she accepts their offers of dance or gift or sweet word. But there is a calid undercurrent about her, coursing through every lingering touch she offers, every hand that is placed upon a shoulder or a palm for just a moment too long. It reveals the lust in her eyes and the puckishness of the smile that plays at her lips, and Jon knows she is aware of exactly what she is doing.

No matter where he sits her eyes find him as she dances, as though compelled to his face by some force that he cannot name, and where her mouth is silent, her eyes speak volumes.

When the feast is concluded and all the guests broken apart, it is finally their turn to retire. Jon, ever the dutiful brother, escorts Sansa from the room with her arm lain chastely upon his, as though when they rounded the corner to the empty corridor they did not become all teeth and lips and tongues.

If the guards or servants know what occurs beyond the latched doors of the Lady's chambers, they say nothing. They do not even undignify their lord and lady by spreading false rumour, and Jon is thankful for that, for though he cares more for the woman in his arms than his name upon a wagging tongue, he thinks perhaps Sansa may not like it so.

Our love belongs to us and us alone, she says as she lets her fingers card somnolently through his dark hair. It does not matter what others might think or say. They do not matter, none of them matter.

Tonight Jon watches from across the chamber as Lord Arthur Glenmore approaches his sister and though he cannot hear them speak Jon thinks he knows what the young lord is saying. Sansa accepts the man's hand with a dazzling smile that makes the contents of Jon's stomach set alight and a moment later she is escorted onto the floor.

Jon drinks his ale and watches as his sister turn about the room, the skirts of her blue gown sweeping across the legs that will no doubt spend the night around his shoulders, and she laughs, high and merry, and for a moment it is though everyone in the room is holding their breath.

Lady Sansa glances at him, so sylphish and innocent that any other might mistake it for simple familial affection, but Jon knows that tonight, when her legs are locked around his waist and his mouth kisses between her thighs, she will give him the same look and its meaning will be all the same.

Lord Glenmore's lips are moving and whatever words he struggles through make Sansa laugh. At once Jon can feel anger roil over him. His hand tightens around his chalice and though Lord Davos obliviously continues their conversation, Jon is no longer listening.

He watches as her hand sweeps through her skirts and then she is lifting them, just slightly, just enough to make Lord Glenmore's eyes widen and his cheeks darken. Jon can see that she is wearing stockings tonight, taking great pleasure at the notion of ripping them off.

When the mummer finishes his song Jon thinks that Sansa will return to her table but as ever she is surprising him. She bids farewell to Lord Arthur with an ambling press of her palm to the shoulder of his doublet and crosses to Jon's table. She looks up at him expectantly, as though awaiting something that he has not prepared. At his side Ser Davos, who had lately become smitten with the woman, breaks off, cheeks slightly flushed.

"My lords." says Sansa, her tone playful. "I hope you fare well tonight."

She meets Jon's gaze and before he knows it, he has risen from his chair, and though he hates to dance Jon is soon crossing around the table to take her hand and lead her onto the floor.

His hands are incorrupt and brotherly as he places them on the swells of her hips, remembering when they had last been there, when Sansa had pinned the lobe of his ear between her teeth. He knew that no rumours will be born tonight, no whispers of the Queen in the North with her brother and her lover.

But the pace of the room shifts nonetheless, as though all at once all lively conversation has grinded to a standstill, and the room just watches. Sansa is unbothered, lavishing in their attentions as she twists and wraps her arms around his waist so that she can meet his gaze in a way no sister should.

Jon has learned the dance for her and her alone, keeping careful pace and trying not to step too hard upon the toes of her slippered feet. She laughs softly at his inexperience but there is nothing but mirth in her eyes as she guides him, and soon the floor is filled with other couples who, so enraptured by their lord and lady, have come to test the dance themselves in hopes that its effect will be as thrilling.

Sansa's free hand is on his thigh, so tight and warm even through the layers of cotton and wool he has donned for the harsh winter. Her breath fans across his neck and he holds her waist firmly, turning their bodies in time to the plucking of the lute.

She presses herself against him, like a kitten keening in the sun, and he swears he can feel every pulse of blood rushing through her veins, every uneven heartbeat that swells in her bosom.

"Do you like this, brother?" she asks and rolls her hips forward.

"Sansa." he growls, a warning in his tone that makes her eyes glaze over with lust. The corner of his mouth twitches, offsetting the disapproval of his voice.

She lets her head fall to the side and Jon can see the strawberry bruise that has blossomed across her skin in the shape of his lips, peaking out just above the high collar of her gown. The urge to kiss her there again becomes almost overwhelming and not for the first time that night Jon wishes that the feast would conclude and they could retire.

"Then where?" she asks. Her lips press to his neck for just a moment, as routine as though she were a maester seeking a pulse. When he does not answer she continues. "Will you join me tonight?" she asks, her voice almost lost among the music. 

When Jon speaks again he seems almost unaffected, but Sansa can feel the stirrings at the fore of his breeches. He groans as he feels the laces seem to suddenly tighten. "And if I don't?" he teases cooly.

She sticks out her bottom lip. "Perhaps I will have to find another knight to join me then."

Jon knows that she is jesting but the words anger him nevertheless and his grip upon her back tightens, pulling her flush against him. "You're mine." he says, and growls, long and long and only for her. He softens, speaking again. "Will you have me?

Sansa's eyes are the colour of water, the same bending blue rivers that had been contained in her brother's eyes, but now they are full only of fire. "You and no one else." she breathes.

Jon doesn't give a damn about loyalty or camaraderie or dancing as he announces that the Lady of Winterfell has taken sick and must retire early, for her health. He barely even stays to bid the other Lord's farewell, leaving instead Lady Brienne and Ser Davos with the rule, and does not miss the way they exchange a knowing glance as he sweeps from the room.

The chambers they share are side by side, so close that if Jon were to press his ear to the wall he was sure he could hear his lady breathing. When they had finally returned to Winterfell and taken back the castle, neither had been able to bear the thought of returning to the chambers they had occupied as children. It had seemed a natural stepping stone for them to lay claim to the Lord and Lady's chambers, for was that not their place now, when all the rest had gone?

She is already waiting for him by the time Jon breaches the door, but she has not undressed yet, for she knows her brother lavishes in doing the job himself. He makes quick work of latching the door and stoking the fire, having already excused the servants for the following hours, before his fingers are at the straps of her gown, and Sansa cannot help but wonder how such callused fingers can be so delicate against lace.

Jon undoes the buttons of her gown without haste, watching as she pulls the pins from her hair one by one, until her hair falls like a cascade down her back and tickles his fingers. Her bodice comes undone beneath his hands, just as she has done so many times, and he makes quick work of removing the whalebone corset she insists on donning each morning, just as her mother had.

He pulls her stockings apart easily, grinning at the small yelp that spills from her, and she slaps him playfully on the chest, commenting that he would have to gift her another pair.

With nothing remaining but her shift Jon turns his attentions to himself, paying far less care with his jerkin and surcoat than he had with her. The leather springs free with one final tug and he abandons it over his shoulder, pulling his tunic over his head so that with nothing protecting his flesh, he can feel gooseflesh ripple across it.

Her fingers drag gently across his belly and chest, feeling the silvery-white welts of healed scars and soon she was on her knees and he was pushed to the bed, where he flops unceremoniously onto his back.

She pulls off his boots for him one by one, so quick with the buttons of his breeches that she cannot help but rush at her haste. His belly jumps as she presses her lips to his bare hip, Jon pushing his trousers down around his ankles and kicking them off. He thinks he will die without being inside of her, the thought of even another moment without her touch making him curse under his breath.

Her legs bracket his thighs, the pair perched carefully at the edge of the bed where Sansa fears they might slip, and she clutches tight to his firm shoulders for balance, smiling impishly at the sight of the older bruises she had made.

Jon thrusts up against her so powerfully that for a moment fears she might slip, latching onto his shoulders for balance. She chokes out a gasp, a loud, strangled sound, and presses her eyes so tightly closed that for a moment Jon wonders if she has peaked already, her cunt so smooth and slippery against his cock that it made little effort to push into her.

"Sansa." he groans.

He thinks of the men she has danced with, of the way she had touched their shoulders and they had touched her waist, and thinks that he is the only one that has been inside of her.

Jon hisses at the feel of her clenching tight around him, hips rolling forward so that he was able to sheath himself fully within her. Jon likes to have her this way, propped carefully in his lap, so that he could press his face into the chasm between her breasts, on eye level with her bosom so that he could see every bounce and shake of it.

Her hair spills over both of their shoulders, her mouth claiming his with a driving need that makes his mouth water, and he holds her steady as he adjusts the rhythm she had set.

He was desperate for her, as he is each night, and he knows that after the events of the night he will not last very much longer. The fingers of his free hand find her sweet cunt and brush across her lips, pleased to feel her jump at the sensation. He parts her folds and presses his fingers to the part of her that he thinks he loves the most, feeling her tremble against him at the sensation, and knows that neither of them would last much longer than this.

"Tell me you're mine, Sansa." he says, and before he has even finished she is moaning against his mouth. He wishes he could have taken her in the middle of the great hall, could have watched the faces of all the lords as he was the one to take her. He would have loved to show them how beautiful she is, as she keens and trembles against him.

"Gods, Jon." she breathes, her voice uneven. "I'm yours. I'm always yours."

He moans her name and then the new name he has given her, the one he whispers only when they are just like this, when his head can fall forward to rest against her chest and he is panting and brimming with love for her.

He knows she fears he will leave for the capitol, where the Dragon Queen often writes to summon him, and he leans close to whisper, "I'm yours, Sansa." he says, nearly overcome. He can smell her on him, the sweet soaps she bathes with, the floral perfumes combed through her hair. He kisses her, soft and simple, and whispers, "Yours and yours only."

The words make her toes curl in the furs and she smiles, the same dazzling smile that seemed to be reserved just for occasions like these, just for him. "I love you." she whispers, as she does each night, and just the same as the night before, it makes Jon burnish with pride to know a woman like her could love a man like him.

He moans softly, at the tenderness of the moment and the sweetness of her touch. "I love you, sweet girl."

Jon isn't sure how many more times he repeats it, until he knows and she knows and he is close to his peak. His hips slam into hers, the air heady with the smells of sex and the sounds of her arousal, slick and smooth, against him, and he could spill just from the sound of it.

"I'm-" he begins.

Part of him wants to untangle himself from her grasp, from where her arms and legs have coiled tightly around him, knowing that to burden the world with another bastard is the last thing he wants. But the other part of him, perhaps the victorious part, wants to sink into her and spend and spend, until she is heavy with child and all of Westeros will know just how he loves his sister.

But she does not let him pull away from her. She allows him to sink fully against her, knowing that it is weight she can support, and with one last kiss and one last encouraging squeeze of her hand upon his arm, Jon is spending inside of her, warm and soft and tight.

In another time Jon might have wished to stay there forever, letting them both soak up the pleasure and pride following orgasm, but his woman has not yet felt it, so he wastes no time in detaching from the limbs of her embrace in search of it.

Jon turns to give her his attention more fully, taking hold of her legs and pulling gently until she is so near to the edge of the bed that for a moment she fears she might pitch over. He takes a moment to stand before her, sated and proud, watching as her eyes sweep over his agile body tempestuously. 

When he thinks perhaps she has drank her fill, he kneels at her feet, as he had so many months ago when he had pledged to her a sword of a different name. Sansa gasps at the feel of his mouth upon her, thinking that she will never grow accustomed to the pleasure his scowl brings when it is nestled between her legs.

Her Lord pulls her legs over his shoulders so that he could nuzzle closer, the scratch of his beard against her soft thighs making her shiver. He lays a path of kisses softly upon her cunt, tasting the heady mix of arousal still within her. Just the thought of it, if her cheeks were not already red as her hair, would make her flush.

“Jon.” she whispers, her voice high with need, as her hand fists in his dark curls. He loves her this way, wild and unrestrained, driven by the foremost need for pleasure. And he gives it to her, moving over her folds in such a way as to make quick work of undoing her, until she was bucking and writhing against him, crying out so loud that from his place before the hearth Ghost raises his head to survey the scene before them.

“Seven hells, Sansa.” he moans, already feeling himself getting hard again, shifting so that his hips could seek friction against the featherbed.

“Did you mean it, Sansa?” he asks, when he has blown out the candles and she is cradled in his arms like a babe, her bead tucked beneath his chin so that she could hear the quickening pulse of his heart. “Are you really mine?”

She slides her soft fingers across his cheeks, letting her thumb brush momentarily against the pad of his bottom lip, where she had bitten a welt into his skin. “I’m yours, Jon.” she promises, reaching out to seek his lips in the darkness. “I’ll only ever be yours.”

Sansa knows that soon the sun will rise and they will return to their relegated roles and the games they play. But as Jon reaches for her, he thinks she does not know that the Dragon Queen has returned his letter, writing that she too thinks it a fine idea to broker a marriage between the Houses Stark and Targaryen, and that Sansa would make a fine match for her nephew.

Jon smiles to the darkness and pulls her closer, her words making pleasure bloom in his belly as though he had finished a bottle of Arbor Gold before retiring. He thinks then that tomorrow will be the day, when he will finally take her in his arms before the eyes of Gods and men, and truly makes her his woman, from this day, until the end of his days.


End file.
